


when death is a friend

by made_of_lions_and_wolves333



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M, Family Dynamics, Gen, Undertaker's POV, semi-au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 08:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17260997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/made_of_lions_and_wolves333/pseuds/made_of_lions_and_wolves333
Summary: No one holds power over him, not even the Queen, for one of his many names is Death.Or: possibly how Undertaker fell in love, became a father and friend, and grew to hate the Queen?





	when death is a friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrytteMystere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrytteMystere/gifts).



> I own nothing, of course.

When you’re older than any calendar can really calculate, your routine can feel even older, and yes, you grow bored. Boredom, you’ve learned, is a dangerous and cruel concept, on many facets.

Over the decades, you become bitter, mournful, and altogether sardonic. You are mad with a certain sickness you cannot heal on your own and you have no other solutions after this long.

You practically lose control.

The strangest things start to flow through your mind. You are in fact, so bored, that you eventually retire from the sole duty which you were chosen to do — and, then— you begin to experiment, despite the protests coming from the few dear underlings who work in ranks behind you.

But you part ways with all of them anyway, because a being of _your_ station has more say in the matter than _they_ ever will. You shall not be restrained, and you already know… you will never admire them to the same degree. A Reaper’s badge and uniform mean nothing to you now. You don’t need them like they think they need you.

 

 

“I am finished here,” you tell them as they all stare back at you in awe and something else that’s akin to worry. “Your rules are not mine. Go. Follow your nature if you must, and I will follow my own.”

 

 

* * *

 

Years later, after traveling far and wide as always, you settle down for a long while, in London of all places.

British commoners are superstitious folk. You are not daft. You know they enjoy idle gossip and sometimes you can hear them whispering through your dark curtains. Some say you’re a male witch while others say you must’ve escaped the walls of a foreign madhouse. Oh, you _must_ be insane... for why else would your hair be so long and so white? White as a lonely ghost covered in a shroud?

Petty rumors aside, you know yourself thoroughly, and you are so much more than they’d probably understand. You are not exactly normal, no, but you still exceed their mortal standards and guesses with great ease.

Though, if you are anything for the people, you are a constant presence. You are always there. Whether they even care or are aware of it, you’re always going to be there, waiting and watching and counting down the minutes.

You are, and will be, a part of their dreams, nightmares, their impending end.

Nevertheless, these fragile creatures continue to entertain you. The bright pulsing force of their souls fascinate you like never before. So, you become very much intrigued.

You willingly enroll yourself as the town’s head Undertaker, continually seeking a taste of their vibrant lives as well as their mortality, and none of it feels in vain.

 

 

You try your hardest to remain their ally, for you somewhat understand their grievances in return… even though you cannot spare them.

Your Reaping Scythe will basically cut on its own by now, charged with your energy and a quiet magic. It naturally turns and points to anyone it should at the right time, just like a needle in a compass. Because above all, one of your many names is Death.

 

 

 

In the meantime, you decide you need a newer, more productive pace. You attempt mingling among these so-called Noble born humans for a change. The elite ones. The ones who at least catch your eye; especially the ones who are fated to depart from this world sooner rather than later. 

Though the underlings may visit the area on occasion, you gladly busy yourself with your own burials and records, flitting in and out of the dark corners in the workshop.

 

Until, well, there’s Cedric. And, Cloudia Phantomhive.

 

* * *

 

 

You’re just observing from afar, lingering within tonight’s Noble circles, because actually, the next one's _Cedric_. He’s going to be your personal customer in five months’ time.

You speak with him first out of humility, because you think it’s better for humans to befriend you than to fear you. Then, astonishingly, you find yourself genuinely enjoying Cedric, as well as Cloudia.

You like Cedric well enough to give him your ‘friendly discount,’ by taking a real interest in his business ventures, his hopes for the future, and of course his infant son, Vincent. You learn that Cedric was quite young when he was first moved to Wales with his parents. With little control over the rest of his own childhood, he had grown up in politics, taught and groomed by counts and ambassadors alike. (He was then forced to marry a highborn daughter in the neighboring city. However, the girl died during childbirth a year later. Most likely she was Reaped by Williams, you suppose.) You also learn this is why Cloudia Phantomhive is supporting Cedric, because she was his first and best friend as children before (and following) those particular events.

Cloudia and Cedric are only pretending to seriously court each other, for it means that Vincent can have a mother in his life— any mother who’s willing to love him as her own, no matter what the facts are.

It’s an unusual request, and a rare circumstance to be seen in human culture these days, _but_ , you admire their mutual devotion and respect for one another, even if their public romance is a false one. Somehow, you come to understand their motives. It’s all for Vincent, a mere child who simply deserves some comfort and happiness in his life before the cruel irony in this world will catch up to him. Thanks to her bravery and wit, the King and Queen's Loyal Watchcat makes a convincing wife-to-be. She’s willing to do all it takes to protect her childhood friend and his son from any real social ridicule.

She gave them a home (her home), a safety net to fall on.  

You help in taking care of Cedric and Vincent too when you’re able, because you can. You _want_ to. You remain by their side as a confidant, as any comrade should do.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

This morning, currently three months in, Cedric catches you somewhat off guard when he looks at you, calmly, yet imploringly. “I think I figured it out. I know what— who you are,” he says, quietly. He’s not afraid, because clearly, he trusts you. “I think I’ve known from the start. I felt it inside me. Still, I wasn’t certain. One might say your presence is unfavorable. A bad omen. But for me, it’s not as frightening now. I do not fear my own mortality anymore. Thank you for that.”

You tip your head, curious, but also a bit concerned and you allow him to continue explaining: he’s dying and he knows it. There’s no known reliable cure for him. 

By the end, you promise him that you’ll still guide him through this. Until he draws his last breath and he’s no longer your client to coach.

Cloudia however, doesn’t realize the set date is riding closer upon Cedric right away, but she’ll learn about Cedric’s state soon enough. There’s only so many times he can hide his symptoms before her sharp eyes will notice something is wrong. Perhaps giving her a warning would be nice, though unfortunately, you’re not a dirty cheater. It’s your code. You never share details that may violate customer confidentiality.

 

 

Finally, Cloudia is fully aware that her best friend is fatally ill, plagued by sore lungs and asthmatic attacks. Yet Claudia doesn’t know that Cedric can’t (or won’t) live to see his son’s third birthday.

You assume, based on what you recognize in humans and their emotions, this transaction is not ideal. It’s in fact quite sad, and you allow yourself to grieve this time— even in Cloudia’s stead. You’ve grown attached to this improvised family. Cedric is an honorable man. He’s everything that you still admire about humanity. Both he and Claudia are two perfect reminders of why you’re here and why you’ll defend them. They deserve lasting peace once they serve their purpose. Because that’s just who you are; and one of your many names is Death. You won’t ever stop.

 

 

Not to mention, you cherish young Vincent just as much. Despite all else, you feel yourself smiling wide when the lad, through Claudia's encouragement, favorably calls you “Uncle.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Cedric’s on his deathbed, releasing a throaty sigh. “I don’t have much time left, do I?”

Courteously, you just remain silent as a way of confirming his suspicions.

“Well, that’s not really important. There’s something else that is important.”

“… Cloudia?” you ask simply.

“Yes,” Cedric slowly nods, attempting to smile at you. “Cloudia and I may have never been truly in love… yet, love is still present within both our hearts, for my child who brought us back together in such a dark hour. And I was hoping you’d protect them in ways that I couldn’t. I will rest peacefully knowing they’ll have you. Stay near for them. For her. She should not have to lose us both.”

 

 

It happens. The grand clock strikes the precise hour and minute, and your Scythe hums with anticipation. Twenty minutes after midnight. It knows. It wakes up, stirring in your grip and it silently tells you that it’s ready. So for Cedric’s sake— the closest friend (a brother) you’ve had in such a long time — you raise your Scythe over his bed and gently as you can manage, cut through his soul, severing it from his physical self.

You walk away from an empty shell of a man and alert the housemaids.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

In truth, you aren’t burdened by Cedric’s last words at all. You don’t mind keeping that promise.

 

 

You stay in touch. You listen to Cloudia’s laments, and her eventual relief. She’s only glad to know that Cedric is no longer suffering. You bond with her again, on another level.

And in conclusion, through the shared love you hold for Cedric’s memory, you start to feel something newer budding between yourselves. Something bolder.

Cloudia currently has this odd effect on you. It’s another nameless magic you can’t quite unravel at first. But it sends little spurts of heat and lightning around your insides.

 

 

Later that week, Cloudia steals a kiss from your lips the first time, tenderly but surely. You don’t object.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

After more years of blending in, attending Cloudia’s parlor parties, Vincent’s lessons and presentations, some horse races, and just reading together by candlelight… you _fully_ catch on. You sense what is actually happening. You’re falling harder for them. You’re falling harder for the Loyal Watchcat and her adopted son.

 

 

Cloudia’s skin and lips are ever so soft and milky under your roaming touch.

Yes, you’re falling from the clouds, falling from your high pedestal, definitely falling deeply in lo—

 

 

— the baby arrives nine months later.

 

Francis Phantomhive.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Unlike her king husband, Queen Victoria in particular is very aware of the existence of Reapers by now. In all actuality, you find that she is fairly knowledgeable in the vast Occult field itself; although, she still says Francis has to be treated as Vincent’s full sister no matter what. She wants Cloudia to claim that Francis was actually conceived by Cedric prior to his burial, and deal with the consequences later. There cannot be any more _weaknesses_ in her Court. No more mishaps, no more bastard children than necessary or any other related scandal that might disrupt their system.

You disagree. You feel personally insulted by those humans. The humans who believe they can rightfully control — _your family!_ — Vincent and Cloudia’s every move and every title. Those humans who think they can control Death.

 

You despise the Royal Court afterwards and see it for what it truly is— a viper pit —always poisoning, killing, coiling, slithering, hiding, and striking at the worst time.

 

No one has power over you. Not even this widowed Crowned Queen.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Snow falls. It's cold and the wind is unforgiving this yuletide night.

Quiet as a shadow, you soon sneak into the babe’s nursery via the open window.

The moon is on your back as your height looms over the child, shading her cheek. The sight of Cloudia sleeping there near the bassinette makes you ache, makes you miss her passionate touch and sharp words and strong will greatly; but it’s awful late and she seems so tired. You’ll let her sleep for now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You return within a month to observe the child once again while her mother slumbers on. 

Unlike her mother, little Francis is actually awake tonight, all too aware of your company. She does not whine in fear or sprout tears to alert her mother. She’s completely unafraid. Thus, you are immensely intrigued by her youthful frailty, her born innocence. She breathes steadily and silently, staring back up at you, blinking once.

Her gaze is growing heavy, you can tell. Though for a moment more, they’re stunningly bright and calm. Curious. Something else stirs within you tonight, and it gradually swells, filling your whole being. Is it pride? Longing? Validation? Happiness? Francis’ eyes are not like Claudia’s or Vincent’s. Not dark brown, or as blue as the sea. They’re green, vivid green. They're your eyes, and a pretty contrast against the fluttering of her long golden lashes. You don’t know why exactly, but you smirk.

 

 

You revisit and return when you can. When it’s safest. You satisfy your own inquisitiveness and sanity, and tonight, you reach down towards Baby Francis.

Your pale, delicate fingertip gently makes contact with her pinkish smooth skin. She’s so small, so clean, so untainted. You trace idle circles up her exposed arm until your dark pointed nail finally touches her chin, tapping it once. Then you decide to tuck one little stray curl back behind her ear. Francis actually smiles. It’s sweet how comforting she finds your presence. And, you’re nearly stunned stiff when her own meek, tiny fist lifts into the air in response, the whole thing closing around your finger.

You remain there, amusing the child, as it seems to please her to hold something _familiar_ to her chest under the dark of night.

Yes, you finally decide. This very vital and real feeling does not lie to you. It’s primal. And it’s true. It really happened.

You and Cloudia made this happen. Francis is yours. She's meant to be in existence because she's here and she's alive. 

 

 

* * *

 

After Francis turns two years old, your shadow still visits her sometimes, during the coldest nights when the streets below are completely empty.

You'll begin by leaving half of your earned gold at Vincent's door, along with a few sweets and a fresh stack of clothes and books he'll find useful at school. A white rose and a personal letter will be placed on the end of Cloudia's canopy bed. Lastly, though certainly _not_ least, you'll spend time minding Baby Francis for the night.

You fix her duvet for her, keeping her warm. After all, in a strange way, tucking in a sleepy toddler is not so different from repositioning a corpse to look presentable in a casket. It's easy and it's no trouble for you.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Occasionally, if little Francis is still half-awake and visibly restless, tossing around in her cot, you will coax her up and gently press her into you. You'll hold her, and slowly rock her side to side. Her little head will slant across your shoulder, fitting perfectly there while her arms drape around the collar of your robes. Her radiant halo of lush white-golden curls spill down over your sleeve, beautifully clashing against the blackest of fabric.

And again you think, that yes, this _was_ worth it. Because even if your name is Death, this child (including Claudia and Vincent, and once upon time, Cedric)… _this_ right here, is _your_ life.


End file.
